


A Dog By Any Other Name

by NotASpaceAlien



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hellhounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5739583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotASpaceAlien/pseuds/NotASpaceAlien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale and Crowley discover the origin of Hellhounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/137449115155/a-dog-by-any-other-name

  


“How much do you remember about Heaven?”

Crowley, his chin planted firmly on the table, looked up from the bottle of vodka in front of him to Aziraphale’s face.  His eyes focused and unfocused as he drunkenly tried to make Aziraphale stop moving.

“Erm?”

“Heaven.  Y’know,” said Aziraphale muzzily.  He guzzled a glass of wine, then set it down, a grape-colored mustache now on his upper lip.  “Heav’n.  Where all th’ choreographers r’at.”

Crowley let out a hissing groan, turned his head down towards the table.  “Boring,” said his muffled voice.

“Pardon?”

“Boring!  It was boring, angel!” Crowley managed to lever himself upright, slosh some more wine into his glass.  “Surely you must know that’s what I would say about it.”

“Well…” said Aziraphale, peering into his glass, swishing the alcohol about in it.  Realizing he was becoming drunk to the point of incoherency, he surreptitiously miracled a bit of the alcohol out of his bloodstream. “I was asking more like… any details you remembered about it…”

Crowley paused from lapping up his alcohol, purple tongue frozen dipped in the purple wine.  He flicked it back into his mouth. “Erm….why?”

“I, well…”  Truth was, Aziraphale had been trying to remember if he had ever interacted with Crowley before he had fallen and become a demon. He remembered what it was like when the portion of the host that was to become demons was cast out—it had been extremely frightening.  And he had felt the absence of those angels he had loved like wound.  It hurt, right up until they put a flaming sword in his hands and punted him into the Garden.

He had actually been half-afraid that assignment meant they were kicking him out as well.  But, no.  “Do you remember, ah….for example…What your angelic name was?  Surely God didn’t name you _Anthony Crowley._  That’s a name you picked for yourself.  You must have been called something else while you were part of the host?”

Crowley sighed—far too deeply, it had to be for theatrics—and gave a long, languid stretch.  “Yeah.  I remember it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

“May I hear it?”

Crowley stared into his glass, then let out a series of syllables in Enochian, an angelic language, something Aziraphale hadn’t heard spoken aloud in a long time.

Aziraphale downed the rest of his glass.  “No, I meant the name you were called _before_ you fell.  The one _He_ gave you.”

“That _is_ the one _He_ gave me.”

Aziraphale stared at him.  “You were called ‘One Who Speaks With A Forked Tongue’ _before_ you fell?”

Crowley closed his eyes.  “Yes, angel, I was.  Why does that shock you?”

“Well it—You hadn’t even done the Garden yet…”

“Ineffability,” said the demon bitterly.

Aziraphale had been hoping that Crowley’s angelic name would give him some window into his soul.  Let him see the _true_ Crowley, whatever was under all those layers he had had to put on to survive hell.  That maybe, now that they had grown close after stopping—or, nearly stopping—the apocalypse together, and standing hand in hand, Aziraphale could call him by an angel’s name and help him remember what he had been.  But he should have known.  Crowley was never made to be an angel.

It was the latest in a long list of thoughts that might have gotten him kicked out of Heaven.  But he wasn’t in Heaven; he was on earth, so he let himself think all the blasphemous thoughts he wanted, and downed enough alcohol to match.

* * *

Crowley somehow managed to miracle himself sober enough to drive home. Or, at least, most of the way home.

 _CROWLEY_ , interrupted a voice from his radio, and the tires of the Bentley screeched as he jerked the steering wheel in surprise.

“Y-yes, lord?”  The voice from the radio had not been the usual voice that issued him orders and dropped chilly knowledge into his brain.  It was someone…of a higher rank.  He was not entirely sure who.  But he didn’t like it.  It couldn’t mean anything good for him.

_CROWLEY, SOMETHING HAS COME TO OUR ATTENTION._

“What would that be, lord?”

_YOUR BEHAVIOR HAS PROMPTED SOME QUESTIONS._

He blessed quietly.  He found an alleyway and turned, jamming the Bentley into it so he could sit and think.

 _WE HAVE A CONCERN, CROWLEY,_ continued the occult voice as the engine died.

“What would that be, lord?”

_THERE ARE SOME AMONG HELL’S RANKS THAT SPECULATE YOU HAVE DEVELOPED FREE WILL._

Crowley gulped.  “Um… Why—why that’s absurd.  Demons can’t have free will.”

 _AND YET…_ said the voice, trailing off menacingly.

“Lord, I followed my orders to a T during the first attempt at—”

 _WE DO NOT SPEAK OF THAT!_ shrieked the radio, and Crowley jumped again.

“Of course not, forgive me—”

_NO MATTER.  THIS IS EASILY RESOLVED.  COME DOWN AND WE CAN EXAMINE YOU.  TO SEE IF THERE IS ANY TRUTH TO THESE CLAIMS._

He watched as a dark red void swirled into existence in front of the Bentley.  

He stared into it, strong instincts fighting for dominance inside him. Because now all his behavior during the failed apocalypse was flashing before his eyes, and he realized in that moment that he _had_ somehow developed free will despite his staunch insistence demons couldn’t have it.  And he didn’t want to think about what they might do when they saw that, because while Hell _verbally_ supported deviance on principle, they tended to not look kindly on when that deviance was from what _they_ wanted.

_I can lie my way through whatever test they give me—_

_Are you kidding?  They can drop knowledge into my brain, surely they can take it out as well—_

_They’re going to see—_

_They’re going to find out—_

_I can’t go in there—_

_But if you don’t you’re proving_ right here _that you do have enough free will to disobey._

 _CROWLEY?_ said the voice on the radio.   _PERHAPS YOU DID NOT HEAR.  COME TO HELL._

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

_CROWLEY?_

With a furious _chunk_ his car door came open, and he leapt out, popping his wings out of his back and leaping into the sky.

Almost instantly he felt something lash out and cinch around his midsection so tightly the breath was knocked out of him.  A second later he was slamming into the ground, his sunglasses shattering, and being dragged towards the portal.

Everything went black as the portal closed behind him, and he could see nothing but smoky darkness, not even whatever appendage was holding him up and squeezing him so terribly.

“M—” he started to say, but the pressure somehow increased, and he couldn’t get out anything besides a stifled choke.

 _I told you,_ came a chittering voice from the darkness.

 _Free will,_ said another, the source indistinguishable in the darkness.

 _This is improper_ , tittered multiple sounds at once.

Crowley was desperately pushing against whatever was holding him, fighting to vocalize some defense, but he had no idea what he might even say.

“Crowley,” said a booming voice, dripping with malice, and he froze, afraid to look up, afraid of who he might see.

He struggled out, “Yes, lord?”

“I see it was true.  Surely you know what disobedience means in Hell?”

For the first time since his fall, he had nothing to say, nothing witty to spin the situation to his advantage, no angle to work to try and save himself.  It was just him and a score of other demons for whom his undemonic nature had just been plainly laid out.  A demon afraid of going to hell.  A demon who would run rather than obey and advance the forces of darkness.  What place would they even have for someone like him?

“I…can still be of use to you…”

“Of course you’ll be of use,” purred the voice, accompanied by the chorus of lesser demons giggling and twittering.  “We have a way of handling demons like you.”

“Like…me…?”

“Surely you didn’t think you were the first to have this little problem? We have a process to… salvage you despite your free will.  You met someone who had gone through it, actually.  With our master’s son.”

He didn’t know what they were talking about, but he didn’t like the sound of it one bit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/137510817155/a-dog-by-any-other-name

The Bentley had been left not far from Aziraphale’s bookshop, so he discovered it a few days* after the demon left his flat.

* * *

*He would have found it sooner, but he started a series of novels as soon as Crowley left, so he had not seen natural sunlight for a while.

* * *

He peeked his head around the corner of the alley and saw the smooth black car where it had been left, with one door bashed against the building next to it.  He stepped forwards to examine it, felt something crunch under his foot, looked down, realized it was a pair of sunglasses.

“Oh, dear.”  This didn’t look good.  Crowley would never leave his precious car in an alley like this, not with the door open. Something had to have happened.

Well, he couldn’t really do anything about Crowley’s interactions with his bosses, but he could at least look after his things until he came back. It was what he would want someone to do for him, after all.  So he slid behind the wheel, shut the door, and started the car with a thought, backing out carefully and navigating the vehicle the relatively short distance to the building where Crowley’s flat was.

Well, was there any harm in checking in at Crowley’s flat?  He didn’t invite the angel in often, but since they had been seeing more and more of each other the demon had made it clear he was welcome to come over.  Maybe Crowley had just had an unfortunate accident, and was inside nursing a hangover.

He took the lift up, traversed the hallway, and knocked on the door.

He heard an awful racket inside, then something banging, then silence.

“Crowley?  Are you in there?  I’m coming in.”

He turned the knob and peeked inside.  No one was in the flat, but there were papers and miscellaneous items scattered about, as though someone had been rifling through his things, and the window was open wide, as though someone had used it to make a hasty exit.

Aziraphale gave the room a stern look and closed the window, locking it in the hopes that Crowley’s belongings would be disturbed no further.

* * *

Aziraphale did not run into the demon at all in the upcoming weeks, despite visiting his flat multiple times (the Bentley remained untouched) and ringing his mobile (he always got the answering machine, and _yes_ , he was sure it wasn’t just Crowley making noises at him again).  But he did notice that, curiously, the rate of evil deeds in the area was increasing. He could not imagine why Crowley would be avoiding him, or why he would be suddenly putting so much extra effort into his work.

Well, fine, then.  If that was how he was going to behave, Aziraphale could play this game.  He would just catch the demon in the act. He would keep his eyes open for mischief and evil, and then ambush him while he was working.

His opportunity came when he was walking along the street one day and felt something prickling at the back of his neck, alerting him to evil.  He spread his wings and took off, zooming up and homing in on the source as fast as he could.

He saw a head of dark hair hunched over something on the street.  “Aha!” he yelled, diving down.  “There you are!  I’ve got you now!”

His eagerness turned to confusion and fear when the demonic presence turned towards him and he realized it was decidedly _not_ Crowley.  He flapped his wings to slow down and skidded to a stop on the pavement a respectable distance from the demon.  “Erm…Hello, there, I thought you were somebody else.”

“Somebody else?” spat the demon.  “Who do you think I am, you featherbrained angel?  Who else would it be but me, Abigor, the demon whose job it is to spread evil and misery in this corner of the globe!”

“Erm…” said Aziraphale.  “Abigor? But there’s already a demon stationed here.”

“He’s being _reassigned_ ,” said Abigor with a slight sneer.  “I’m the one in charge here, now.  I tried to read his notes on what projects he had already going, but everything in that flat was basically useless.  Can’t say I blame Dagon for recommending reassignment.”

Aziraphale felt his wings drooping.  “Oh, I see.”

“No more fooling around, angel.  I’ve been keeping ahead of you this whole time, and that’s not likely to stop.”

“Hm?”

“Nothing you’ve done has worked against me, celestial fiend. I’ve been one step ahead of you.”

Aziraphale stared at Abigor, picturing the demon playing an imaginary game with someone who didn’t even realize they were in a competition.  “Oh, yes.  Well, I suppose I’ll have to…step it up, then, as humans say…”

“I’d think so.”

“Abigor, do you have a phone?”

“What?”

Aziraphale took out his mobile; it was a bit of an older model, but Crowley had helped him pick it out and it still worked just fine.  “I was thinking we could exchange numbers in case we need to get ahold of each other.  It was dreadfully inconvenient to try and find you.”

Abigor’s upper lip peeled back, revealing a few scraggly fangs. “What kind of game are you playing, Principality?”

Aziraphale had not dealt with a demon besides Crowley in ages and had forgotten the code of conduct.  “Oh, um,” he chirruped, sliding his phone back into his pocket.  “Ah, you, saw right through that trick, didn’t you? You’re more clever than I thought!”

“Of course!” said Abigor, puffing his chest out.

“Ah, now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going.”

“You’re not going to try and thwart me?” said Abigor, but Aziraphale had already lifted off, kicking dust up in his wake.

* * *

For the first few days, Aziraphale tried to tell himself he could make do.  Crowley wasn’t _that_ special.  He was just some lowlife demon; he could be easily replaced.  Aziraphale need not want for company, he told himself, even company that could keep up with him in terms of drinking.  There were other angels, or even humans.  He might be able to win Abigor over; Aziraphale had not been much friendlier to Crowley in the first parts of their relationship, but eventually they had grown close, to the point where—

He stopped that particular train of thought before it could get too far. Reminiscing would only make it hurt more.

 _Hurt?_ Aziraphale realized exactly how far his attachment to Crowley had gone, that his absence caused emotional pain.  It alarmed him.  And he resolved that no, Crowley being gone would not change anything.  He was still an angel, and he still had a job to do, and he didn’t need Crowley here with him.

He went on like this for months and months, telling himself to move on, he’s just a demon, he probably doesn’t miss _you_ , you can find someone else to spend your time with…and laugh into the wee hours of the morning with…and let accidentally fall asleep on your shoulder, and who will act embarrassed when they wake up but it’s clearly only for show because they do it again the very next night—

He plied himself with alcohol, and it was only then that he was able to admit to himself that he _couldn’t,_ he couldn’t just forget him and move on, because he cared about him more than he should, and he needed him here.  His absence ached the very same way the missing 1/3 of the heavenly host had ached in the early days before Eden.

Well, Aziraphale had learned a thing or two from humans, just as Crowley had.  One of those things was that sometimes you can say _bugger ineffability_ and play by your own rules.  He couldn’t do anything about the missing angels, but he _could_ stop all this moping around and go _find_ the blessed demon.

If Crowley was happy where he was, then Aziraphale felt he could let go. He just needed some closure.  He just needed Crowley to snap him out of this silly daze.   _What kind of angel are you?  A bloody awful one.  Leave me alone._  

Just one meeting, one reassurance that this was the way the Crowley wanted it, and then he would be fine.

Abigor had had more or less free reign while Aziraphale was in his depressive state.  His interpretation of this had been that Aziraphale was a weak and wimpy angel. So he was very surprised when Aziraphale zoomed into his location, broke the door down, overwhelmed him at sword-point.

“Who?” said Abigor, with confusion and barely suppressed fear.

“Crowley,” said the angel, tapping the tip of his sword against Abigor’s throat.  “The demon who was here before you.  Tell me where he’s been… ahm, ‘reassigned to.’”  I need to talk to him.”

“I don’t…oh…”  Abigor trailed off, then grimaced, as though remembering something unpleasant.

“What?”

“You’re not going to like the answer.”

Aziraphale’s enthusiasm for his mission was beginning to turn into anger and unease.  “ _Tell_ me.”

“You won’t kill the messenger?”

“No.  Tell me.”

“Well,” said Abigor, breaking into a malicious smile, “I really would not like to be him, to be honest.  How long has it been?  January, February….He’s definitely still in Hell at this point.”

Aziraphale’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.  “You said he had been _reassigned._ ”

“Right.  Reassigned.”

“But why would he still be in Hell!  He’s a field agent!  Make some sense!”

Abigor shrugged.  “They’re doing something to him first.  Can’t really say what, exactly.”

Aziraphale clenched his jaw.  “Then this is not of Crowley’s own will?”

Abigor choked.  “G—   _Hell_ , no.   _Nobody_ would want what he’s going through. They’re doing it because he developed free will, as I understand it.”

Aziraphale’s anger was boiling up inside him now, because he knew exactly what had lead Hell to _that_ particular conclusion.  “ _What_ are they doing to him?”

Abigor’s face twisted into an evil grin.  “I don’t know, but I don’t think he’s stopped screaming since the day he got down there.”

The expression was wiped off his face a moment later when the blade rammed through his skull, splattering blood everywhere and pinning him to the wall.

Aziraphale had never been this angry.  But now he knew exactly what he had to do to change things.  That was something Crowley had taught him.  That you _can_ say _bugger ineffability_.

Aziraphale wanted Crowley here with him, and that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My pal made a drawing for this!! :) You can see it here http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/137947116075/dontkillthemessenger


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/137578420835/a-dog-by-any-other-name

  


Here’s something interesting about Hell that not many people know:  It is extremely easy to get into, at least for an angel.  This is because no one had ever thought of the possibility of an angel going there. The fallen had already been demons before they got there, and Heaven had no reason to send anyone into Hell:  the righteous were already in Heaven.  There was nothing but sinners, lost, fallen, damned, scum, in Hell; everything there was worthless.  There was no reason for an angel to go into hell, except for that angel’s own free will, and very few angels had ever developed free will, and even fewer had ever had a reason for them to _want_ to go into hell.

Aziraphale was the first.  That’s why it was easy.  No one had been expecting it.  He had just walked in.

There was a receptionist at the entrance, and his sword went through the imp’s head before it could even scream or summon help.  He then pushed the body off the chair and began to rifle through the papers on the desk.  There were lots of them, and he discovered binders and books stacked underneath and behind as well, and filing cabinets that opened to cartoonish distances beyond what was physically possible.

Well, all that time he had spent going through dusty tomes in quiet libraries was finally useful: it was practice for this moment.  He was able to find what he needed in a matter of minutes; Crowley’s location was written in a folder in one of the filing cabinets.  It was under _H_ for _Hellhounds,_ and Aziraphale didn’t know why it might be _there_ , but now he had it regardless.

He left the desk behind and moved forwards, deeper into hell.  He had half hoped he would be able to find an elevator, but he had no such luck.

Pained screams became louder and louder as he descended.  The air became hot and heavy, the light red and infernal.

He took a moment to pause, thankful he had not run into any other demons yet.  He clenched his sword by his waist, found the hall marked with the location he was after.

The hard ground crunched under his feet as he approached the tall, sloping limestone archway; screams continued to echo about him, some nearby, some further away.  None of them were Crowley’s as far as he could tell, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

He paused at the entrance and waited until he heard footsteps, then rammed his sword through whoever was coming.  When he heard a body drop to the ground, he turned the corner and saw some demon lying dead at his feet.  He focused on the loop of keys around its belt; he snapped them off, stepped over the body, and continued on his way.

The narrow passageway was lined with rusty metal doors; he counted them as he passed by, trying to identify the correct one.

 _26…27…here._  He swung to a stop in front of the correct door, looking left and right to make sure no one was nearby.  The passageway was dark and quiet and suffocating and it felt like nobody would ever come by here in a million years.  He was afraid of what he was going to find on the other side, but he was more afraid of leaving that _whatever_ the way it was right now.

He stuck the key in the door, opened it, and stepped in.  It was so dark inside that closing the door threatened to plunge him into blackness, so he spoke softly and summoned a soft white light as he closed it behind him.

And oh _God—_ there was Crowley, or what was left of him.  His gaunt frame was covered in dried blood, which had seeped out from sigils crudely carved over his entire torso—they were symbols he was vaguely familiar with, and while he didn’t know exactly _what_ they would do to a demon, he knew they were very nasty things.  His wrists ended in ragged stumps, and he was completely naked except for a wire muzzle and a chain around his neck keeping him tied to the wall.  All that remained of his wings were two bony nubs that stuck out from his huddled-over figure.  He had been drinking from a metal bowl on the ground—or had been trying to, at least—and his fever-bright eyes snapped up to Aziraphale as he entered.

“Oh, Crowley…”

The demon let out a fearful whine, hunching up and drawing away.

Aziraphale sheathed his sword.  “It’s okay, I’m here now.”

Aziraphale held out his hand as he stepped forwards.  Crowley’s face tightened into the most intense expression of terror and hatred the angel had ever seen, and he pressed himself against the wall, as far away from Aziraphale as he could get.

“Crowley, it’s me, it’s Aziraphale.  It’s okay.”

A low growl was rumbling in Crowley’s throat, and his upper lip drew back in a snarl.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here.  We can start by taking this off…”

The second Aziraphale’s hand touched Crowley’s neck to take the chain off, the demon exploded into a cacophony of hisses and shrieks and howls the likes of which Aziraphale had never heard.  He withdrew immediately, and Crowley stopped his flailing, dropping back into low growl.

“Come on.  Let’s go home.”  He tried again, but the reaction was the same; Crowley started going berserk, lashing out with all of his limbs and trying to bite him through the muzzle.

Aziraphale retreated, and Crowley once again fell into relative placidity, eyeing the angel warily and baring his teeth.

Aziraphale put his head in hands.  “Come on, Crowley.  I’m here to save you.  Please?”

There was no response.

There had to be some way to make him see, right?  He had to hurry.  He wasn’t sure if getting out of Hell was going to be as easy as getting in, and he couldn’t take Crowley out of here with him if he was thrashing and screaming the whole time.

He felt something sharp poke into his back and turned to see a rack of torture instruments behind him.  He couldn’t suppress the disgusted sound that welled up his throat looking at them, but he forced it down.  He shouldn’t be surprised, after all. 

He stole another glance at the demon and saw that he was frozen, looking at him with panicked, pleading eyes.

“It’s okay.  I’m not going to hurt you.”

Crowley did not seem reassured and continued to give off twisted growls when he tried to get near him a third time.

Aziraphale did not know what to do.  He couldn’t come all this way and just _leave_ him here like this.  But he wouldn’t even be able to carry Crowley if he wasn’t going cooperate.  He considered letting Crowley tire himself out, but didn’t think he would have enough time to let that happen.

He turned back towards the horrid instruments on the wall and spotted a length of rope hanging there among them.  He shivered, not wanting to know what they had done with it before, but also thinking that he knew what he had to do now.

He already hated himself for it, but he could see no other option. Crowley whimpered as Aziraphale took the rope down off the wall, cooing useless reassurances and approaching.

It took some wrangling, but eventually Aziraphale managed to restrain him, pinning his arms to his sides and wrapping the rope around him.  He was able to similarly immobilize his legs. The demon continued to snarl protests as Aziraphale unclamped the chain around his neck.

He figured this was as good as it was going to get, and hoisted the writhing Crowley onto his shoulder.  The demon was just screaming now, which was distressing, but it at least sounded like a noise Crowley would make. 

He took a deep breath before slamming the door open and plunging back into Hell.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/137664408505/a-dog-by-any-other-name

It had been surprisingly easy.  It was not _easy_ , per se, but the lowness of the difficulty level had been surprising.  It was still relatively high.  There had been a lot of running, a respectable amount of fighting, a little flying, but _lots_ of running.

Aziraphale was in the air above Soho, his wings beating exhaustedly, feeling himself growing weaker and weaker.

He touched down in front of the bookshop, grateful that no one was around, and made his way into the shop, the bell jangling with their entrance. He somehow managed to summon the energy to drag himself and the demon upstairs into the bedroom on the top floor, where he dropped Crowley onto the bed, and then collapsed next to him, his wings draping over them both.

He lost track of how long he lay there, panting.  He was injured and exhausted.  But he had done it.

He fell asleep, eventually.  Just for a bit.  A small sobbing sound faded into existence as he drifted back towards consciousness.

He lifted his head to see that tears were streaming down Crowley’s face, the demon’s gaze fixed on the ceiling.

“Are you all right, my dear?” said Aziraphale, managing to prop himself up.

“Az—Az—Azz—”  The words were catching in Crowley’s throat.

“I’m here.”

“Are w-w-w-”

“We’re on earth.  We’re safe. It’s okay.”

“What’s g-g-g-”

“It’s okay.  Everything’s okay.  Just relax.”

Crowley’s eyes were wheeling about the room now.  “Why am I ti-ti-tied up?”

Aziraphale exhaled and pulled himself upright.  “You were being uncooperative earlier.  It’s okay now.”

“I’m scared.  What’s going on?  I’m scared.”

“It’s okay.”

“Everything hurts.”

“Okay, it’s okay.”  Aziraphale crawled over to him and put what he hoped was a reassuring hand on him. He felt Crowley’s chest expanding and contracting rapidly under his fingers.

“I’m scared.”

“It’s okay.  Just calm down.”  Aziraphale wanted to heal Crowley as soon as he could, but he didn’t think he’d have the energy to do so until later when he himself was more recovered.  And he had never actually used his healing powers on a demon before, so he wasn’t sure if they’d work at all.

Well, they’d figure something out.  Crowley would have plenty of time to rest and recover. Unbothered.  Aziraphale would make sure of that.

“Will you please untie me?” said Crowley’s increasingly frantic voice.

“Of course,” said Aziraphale.  He gently lifted Crowley’s head to access the strap keeping the muzzle on. It came off with a snap.  “There, is that a bit—”

He was cut off as Crowley snarled and clamped his teeth on Aziraphale’s hand.

“Ah!  Crowley! Stop!  Stop it!”

Aziraphale managed to pry the demon off, but not before he had taken a noticeable chunk out of his hand.  He held him down, panting, trying to staunch the flow of blood from the gaping wound.  Crowley’s lips drew back into a frightful facsimile of a grin, baring his teeth, now stained red with blood. 

His eyes shone with primal fire, bloodlust, readiness for violence, desperate hunger.  Hell had done something to him beyond just physical pain; that much was obvious.  Aziraphale had no idea what to do to help him.

He climbed off.  Crowley’s bestial expression dissolved with fearful moans; Aziraphale laid a blanket on top of him, afraid to do much else.

“You just rest now.  You’ll have plenty of time to get better.  Don’t you worry.  You’re safe with me now.”

“What’s going on?” the demon sobbed.

Aziraphale grimaced.  “I’ll…make use some tea.”*

* * *

*It is a well-established fact that the British stress response includes elevated pulse rate, pupil dilation, and the urge to brew tea.  

* * *

“Aziraphale, don’t leave me!” wailed Crowley’s voice as Aziraphale moved towards the door.

“I’ll be right back!  I promise!”

He might have just summoned the tea from the aether, but he was so weak that his knees wobbled as he descended the stairs.  He gripped the banister tightly.

Crowley’s screaming, muffled by distance and floorboards, continued as he moved into the back room, found the kettle, boiled some water. Aziraphale crossed his arms and leaned on the stove, listening with distress to the sounds coming from upstairs, which had taken on a noticeably more animalistic tone now.

Then: silence.

“ _Fuck,_ ” said Aziraphale, summoning what was left of his energy to sprint back to the staircase.

_It’s all right, he just calmed himself down—_

_I didn’t lock the window, I didn’t put down any wards—_

_You’re just panicking for no reason—_

He swung into the room, saw a menacing figure at the window, holding Crowley under one arm with a hand clamped over his mouth.

“You!” Aziraphale roared, and leapt towards him, but he was wrenched sideways and thrown into the wall with a single gesture from the other.

“You didn’t think it would be that easy?” said the intruder, holding Crowley as he squirmed in his grasp.

Aziraphale recognized the interloper from descriptions Crowley had given him while they were drinking.  “You…You must be Duke Hastur…” he said, pulling himself upright.

Hastur flicked his hand again and sent the weakened angel against the far wall.

“Don’t interrupt this time,” barked Hastur.  “You can’t just waltz in and interfere.  We need to make an example of him to stop anyone else from getting ideas.”

Aziraphale shakily got to his feet.  “Give him _back._ ”

“He’s not _yours_. He belongs to Hell.”  Hastur slammed the angel against the wall one more time before turning towards the window, putting one foot up on the sill.  “Don’t bother trying to get back into Hell.  I’ll personally make sure you’ll be stopped at the gate next time.  It _won’t_ be pretty.  I promise you.  Oh, and Aziraphale?  When I get my hound, I’ll make sure the first thing he does is come after _you_.”

And with a flourish of enormous wings, both demons disappeared.

Aziraphale struggled through the haze of pain and broken bones and bleeding wounds to stand up.  One hand on the wall, he dragged himself towards the window, ripping his wings out. He could feel the demonic presence fading far too fast for him to follow, could feel Hell opening to swallow them back up.  Then they were gone.

His wings drooped, and he let himself collapse onto the bed, making no attempt to suppress the sobs welling up from inside him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/137710104920/a-dog-by-any-other-name

Nothing made torture unbearable quite like the thought that you had almost escaped it.

Crowley had been in the middle an isolation treatment when Aziraphale had pulled him out, so they made him restart that.  As the cell door closed and once again plunged him into utter darkness, his battered and half-coherent mind wondered if the angel had gotten angry that Crowley had bitten him and put him back.  He crawled as far towards the door as the slack on the chain would let him and said that he was sorry over and over again, until he was hoarse.  Then he just sat quietly in the dark until he could no longer stand the sensory deprivation. After that, he tried to gnaw on something, but was stopped by the muzzle.  When he gave up on that idea, he tried to scratch things with his fingernails, but remembered vaguely that he couldn’t do that.  He settled for using his toenails: first his legs, until he felt fresh blood coming up, and then the floor.  When he couldn’t do that anymore, he tried to pound his head on the wall to make himself go unconscious, but he felt himself gripped by one of the anti-demon symbols on his body, forcing him to stay awake.

This went on for ages and ages.  He was almost happy when the door opened again, happy until the torture started up again, and then he wanted to just go back to being alone, because that same sigil kept him from blacking out no matter what his physical body was subjected to.  He couldn’t escape, not in body or in mind.  Each time he retreated further into himself to try and escape the pain, to protect himself, but they went in after him, tearing him up.  He could feel them digging around inside his mind, destroying everything they touched, whittling away at him, and nothing he did helped, he just went deeper and deeper until he had nothing left but this desperate desire to just not feel this pain anymore. 

Then, when his body was too broken to hold him anymore, they tore him out and put him in a new one, one that was quite different, one that bent not to his will but to the will of someone else entirely.

All he remembered was the pain, and the sensation of being forced into a body he had little control over.  It felt like a violent rebirth, red lights hot on his head, shrieking as loudly as he could and trying to beg for it to stop and hearing only howls come out. 

He felt like he was forgetting something, a small vestige of nagging thought that he used to be something else.  But they knew when he was thinking that, and it brought the pain back, until even that scrap of intelligent thought was driven out of him.

Things were a little better then.  He only felt the pain if he did not do what he was told.  Disobedience brought the pain back, so that even thinking of disobeying was painful, and all thought of having any of his own will was shrouded in darkness and agony.

And they actually fed him.

“Good boy,” said a voice as he felt his teeth tearing some human to shreds. He dropped the limp body and snuffled forwards until he found the piece of food that had been dropped, licking it up.

* * *

Aziraphale thought he had been angry before, but now he knew what true anger was like.

As soon as he had enough energy, he trashed the bedroom, breaking everything within reach into pieces. Then, exhausted once again, he collapsed onto what remained of the bed.

He lost track of how long he lay like that.  It might have been days.  But he finally pushed himself up, wiped his face.

“Those bloody bastards,” was all he could manage to say.

What about bugger ineffability?  What about us against the world, the underdogs winning?  What about forging your own path?

Damn it all.  There was no way he’d be able to get Crowley out of hell like this.  Hastur himself said he’d make sure he didn’t get in.

But he needed Crowley. He couldn’t just leave him.  He _couldn’t._  Not after what he had seen in those eyes.  Not after how he had begged for help.  Not after seeing what they were doing to him.

Crowley was his friend. His dear friend.  Crowley was precious to him.  Crowley had told him the name God had given him before he fell. Crowley had stood with him to face Satan himself just because Aziraphale had asked.  And he wanted him back.

Aziraphale made himself a cup of tea to think.  This lasted several days.

He couldn’t get Crowley out of Hell.  What if he waited until Hell let him out?   _Were_ they going to let him out?

_I’ll make sure the first thing he does is come after_ you _,_ had been Hastur’s parting shot.  But wait, that had been about his _hellhound,_ not about Crowley.  Why would he…?

Aziraphale felt horror growing in him as he came to the realization.  The only way Hell could make use of demons who wouldn’t obey would be to strip them of the parts that inclined them towards free will.  And thinking of his precious Crowley, Aziraphale knew—that was _all_ of him.  It was who he was.  To get Crowley to be docile and obedient and not thinking for himself, you’d have to destroy what made him _him._ His personality, his agency, his higher brain functions.  And when you did that, what was left?

Fear.  Hunger.  Base instinct.  An animal. A dog.

Aziraphale got to his feet, dead-set on his course of action now.  It looked like those skills he had developed reading all those books would come in handy for the second time now, because while he didn’t know much about hellhounds, he thought he might have some books about them.  And if Hastur thought that line about Crowley being sicced on him was supposed to scare him, well, he was in for a surprise, because he had just given Aziraphale all the leverage he needed.

* * *

“Duke Hastur!” said an imp as he approached.  “Hail—”

“Yes, yes,” said Hastur, waving his hand.  They could hardly be heard over the barking.  “I was told to report here for my hellhound.”

“Oh, yes, congratulations!” said the imp, making his way back into the infernal kennels.  “About time you got one.  I always said someone of your rank—”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Hastur.  “Just give it here.”

The imp came back with a lead, and Hastur breathed, “Oh, _yes._ ”

It was a fantastic beast, with scorching yellow eyes and a lithe frame, and it was already drooling and hissing before Hastur even took it.  “Perfect,” said Hastur elbowing the imp out of the way and discarding his wishes for him to have a bad day.

The hound pattered obediently behind him as he led it away to a quieter spot.  He knelt down and looked into its eyes.  The hound was panting and returned his gaze absently.

“I would say let this be a lesson, but no doubt you don’t even remember why you’re like this.”

The hound’s ears swiveled, but otherwise it gave no response.

“Your first orders from your new master,” said Hastur.  “I want you to find the angel Aziraphale and kill him.”

The hound’s jaw snapped shut, and it let out a whine.

“The angel who used to be your... _friend_.  Tear him limb from limb.  Eat his organs.  Drink his blood.   _Go._ ”

Hastur didn’t know if the hound would actually be able to kill the angel.  Especially if he had that flaming sword he had used on his first trip into hell.  But one of them was going to die—that would enough for him.  He wanted to see those who thought they could break the rules so flagrantly and get away with it being punished.  Watching that angel fall at the claws of a warped version of his friend, or watching him be forced to kill what remained of that friend—he wasn’t sure which he would like more.

The hound snarled ferociously, turned, and bounded off towards Hell’s exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it occurred to me that if I died right now only my betas would know how this story ended


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/137775178820/a-dog-by-any-other-name

Aziraphale started by painting an anti-demon sigil on the ceiling.  It was one that would keep a demon from using their powers and from leaving the circle, but otherwise  
wouldn’t harm them.

The second thing he did was procure a vial of holy water, and keep it close to him.

He then propped open a very, very old manuscript he had found in his collection.  It had been written by someone who knew far more about hellhounds than any human had the right to know.  There were instructions for a ritual involving a rather complex symbol. If it was not performed correctly and with exquisite timing, someone involved would die.  Aziraphale copied the sigil out of the volume very carefully; it had lots of wiggles and sharp angles, and it was so big that it took up most of the floor in the back room.  He checked the manuscript, recited the words once more to keep them fresh in his mind. He then sat cross-legged in the circle, put his sword over his legs, and waited.

Hellhounds needed masters. See, that was the thing: demons all belonged to Hell on principle, and one could do nothing to change that.  But hellhounds could be owned.  And a hellhound’s owner got to decide its name. And its name determined what shape it took.  And Aziraphale had a very good name for the hellhound that he knew was coming for him:

_One Who Speaks With A Forked Tongue._

It got dark surprisingly fast.  Preternaturally fast.  The bulbs in the ceiling shattered.  The light from the front room dimmed.  A howl boomed in the distance.

Aziraphale stood slowly, taking his sword in his hand.  The smell of brimstone became thicker and thicker in the air as he heard the _tick-tack_ of clawed feet on hardwood floors.

There it was: an enormous figure, its yellow eyes burning in the darkness, its charcoal coat blending it with the shadows, its jaw peeled back and its pearly white fangs dripping with saliva, foam spilling from its mouth as a growl vibrated in its throat.

“Hello, dear,” said Aziraphale, moving both hands onto the hilt of the sword.

The hound crept forwards, low to the ground, its tail straight out and its hackles raised, eyeing him warily.

“Well, come on then!” shouted Aziraphale from the center of the circle.

The hound let out one final snarl and lunged.

Its teeth sunk into Aziraphale arm, and he let out a cry of pain, stepping back, feeling his blood spattering everywhere as the hound shook its head from side to side, tearing into him. He raised his arm, but the hound kept its hold, moving upright.  Exposing its belly.

With one thrust the sword plunged into its gut, and it whined, letting go, staggering back, falling over, a crimson pool spreading out beneath it and blotting out the paint on the floor.

“No you don’t!” said Aziraphale, leaping onto it before it could leave the circle, and it collapsed under his weight, squeals of pain loud in his ear as it thrashed under him, its claws scrabbling on the floor.

Its movements grew fainter and fainter.  Aziraphale reached down and planted his bleeding palm in the puddle underneath the two of them, their blood running together onto the sigil beneath them.

“I, the angel Aziraphale,” he shouted over the hellhound’s dwindling  whimpers, “mix my blood with this beast’s as proof I have bested it in battle.  I, having proven my mastery of this creature by dominance, hereby lay claim to its ownership, on the grounds that I could have destroyed it but chose to spare it. By the power invoked in this ritual, and its life debt to me—”

The hellhound was only twitching now, but Aziraphale could still hear its heartbeat.  “—I demand the proper rights of an occult being possessing this hellhound, and revoke those of the one who squandered it by letting it die.”

He knew it had worked immediately, because he felt power from an external source surge through him in an instant, and felt every fiber of the hellhound under him.  He immediately seized it and pushed every ounce of healing power he could muster through it, stanching the flow of blood, forcing its heart to keep beating, and mending the organs he had destroyed with the sword.

Aziraphale continued, and this time with unnecessary formality, because there was no naming ritual. You could just say “I’ll call him Dog.” “And as the owner of this hellhound, I have the right to name it!  And I name it—”  He very carefully recited the Enochian sounds Crowley had said to him so long ago, the name God had given him at the dawn of creation.

The hound underneath of him dissolved into the battered body of a man.

Aziraphale turned him over, his head lolling, his eyes closed, faint moans escaping from his lips. The angel put his hand on Crowley’s belly, continuing to mend the wound.  The dark air was quiet now, filled only with the calming things Aziraphale was whispering to him.

He kept going until he felt Crowley was stable under his hands, and his own powers were close to exhausted.  He put his head in Crowley’s hair; the demon was motionless in his hands now, except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.  “There we are, my dear.”

He planted one small kiss on his forehead, then laid him gently on the ground and stood up.  He straightened the sleeves of his shirt, which by now were hopelessly torn and saturated with blood.  “And I suppose _you_ probably have something to say about this?” he said, turning around.

There was Duke Hastur on the other side of the room, his face locked in an expression of fury. “You can’t _do_ that!”

“I believe I already have,” said Aziraphale.  “It’s a perfectly fair occult ritual.  It’s not my fault if you didn’t know about it.  I don’t make the rules.” 

“But—you—you _bastard!_ ” howled Hastur, marching forwards, bloodlust in his eyes.

He stopped, confusion overcoming his countenance.  Aziraphale stepped backwards, pointed upwards.

Hastur looked up and saw the anti-demon sigil painted on the ceiling.  “ _You—You conniving—snake!_ ”

Aziraphale wanted to laugh. But he was too tired.  And the images of Crowley after they had done all of those terrible things to him had been burned into his mind ever since Hastur had taken him back.  All that anger was returning to him.

“Let me out of here this instant!” raged Hastur.  “You’re going to pay for this!  I swear by all the infernal—”

“Am I correct in assuming you were the one responsible for what they did to him in Hell?” Aziraphale interrupted.

Hastur’s lip twitched, and he snarled, “Yes, all right!  That scum deserved it after what he did!  He still does!  He should be screaming in some dungeon—”

He stopped when he saw the flask Aziraphale was taking out of his jacket.

“That’s not—”

“It is.”

Hastur’s face flashed with fear, his thoughts consumed with what had happened to his companion.  “Wait—”

Aziraphale cut him off with a flick of the wrist, which sent holy water all over the man-shaped being in the circle, and then turned so that he didn’t have to watch as Hastur dissolved just as his partner had done at Crowley’s hands.

When the screaming was over and there was nothing left but some goo sizzling on the carpet, Aziraphale scooped Crowley up off the floor, cradling him and laying him down on the sofa on the far side of the room, away from all the blood and destruction.

He huffed, sunk onto the couch next to the demon, and pulled him over.  Crowley’s skin was soft and unbroken under his hands, and it felt good to see him whole.  Aziraphale stroked him slowly, listening to his breathing, letting him lie there for as long as he wanted.

Eventually Crowley’s serpentine tongue flicked out and licked Aziraphale’s hand.  His heart seized at the thought that his plan might not have worked.

The demon’s eyes opened wearily, and he looked up at Aziraphale with utter disorientation. “Angel?”

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale breathed.  “ _My_ dear.”

“Are we…”  He shifted so he could see the rest of the room. “What…”

Aziraphale pulled him back down.  “Don’t worry about that.”

Crowley fell silent.

That left just one more thing to do.  Aziraphale leaned over to the end table and pawed around in it for a marker.

“What’re you doin’?” said Crowley in a small voice as the felt tip dragged over the back of his neck.

“It’s all right.  Just lie still.”  Crowley didn’t seem like he had the energy to do anything _but_ lie still, but Aziraphale said it anyway.

Once the symbol was finished, Aziraphale put the marker down and whispered the words for the manumission spell he had found in the same manuscript as the hellhound rituals.  He had no idea if it would work or not, but he said every word carefully and gently, as though he were talking to Crowley, who had his head buried in Aziraphale’s stomach.

He felt something small snap inside him, the master/slave connection between him and Crowley severing, and tears were welling up from inside him.  He lifted the demon, holding his head in his hands.  “You’re free now.”

“What?”

“You don’t belong to Hell anymore.  Or to anyone.”

Crowley’s eyes were shimmering with tears now.  “Oh,” he said vaguely.

He would be happy later when he had time to process it, Aziraphale thought.  For now he just pressed himself into the angel.  The two of them, utterly exhausted, would sit there for days in quiet and safety before finally moving to get some tea and biscuits. Aziraphale was fairly certain the destruction he had wreaked on a Duke of Hell who had crossed him would make anyone think twice about trying to challenge either of them. 

There would be many, many afternoons of tea and biscuits together after this.  There would, in fact, never be an afternoon with tea separately after this.

* * *

Somewhere away from there, in lower Tadfield, a boy plays with his dog.  He’s a slightly older boy, but he’s a boy nonetheless, and the dog is somewhat not quite a dog, but still a dog nonetheless.

“Come on, Dog!” says the boy, peddling his bike faster and faster.

“Adam, wait!” says a voice behind him, a girl struggling to catch up.

“Hurry up, Pepper!” 

The boy is laughing and throwing sticks, and the dog is barking excitedly, fetching objects back and forth, and running alongside the bike.  And the dog doesn’t know why but it feels so safe, like it’s the happiest it’s been in centuries, and doesn’t need to worry about a thing in the world.


End file.
